Anna Finch and the Hired Gun (30 page)

Anna, however, obviously had no such reservations.

“Miss Finch,” he said as she lifted herself onto her toes, “I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

“Mr. Sanders,” she said, her breath warm against his neck, “must we always disagree?”

“Yes,” he whispered against her lips and then surrendered the last of his good sense. His lips fitted against hers just as well as he remembered, and the soft sigh she made when he pulled away was nearly his undoing.

“And to think I was going to apologize for kissing you in the river,” she said.

“Actually, I was going to apologize, but I think I’ll blame it all on those mules.”

Her smile was radiant. “I think you’re remembering incorrectly, Mr. Sanders. The real trouble began with your Stetson.”

“Did it?” Any memory he had of that day focused on her and not any farm animals or hats. “Well, today it’s your hat I find troublesome.” Jeb tugged on the ribbon holding her bonnet in place. The bow gave way, and the frilled finery came with it. Curls tumbled around her shoulders, and Jeb reached to wrap a chestnut strand around his finger. “There,” he said. “You’re lovely without it.”

“Scandalous,” she whispered. “I now see why my father decided I needed supervision.”

Her joke, harmless and yet close to the point, kept him from acting on feelings that had begun to take hold.

“Miss Finch,” he said as he moved her to arm’s length, “I fear we’ve overstayed our time here. Likely someone will question why you’ve not returned.”

She seemed oblivious to his warning. “Mr. Sanders, I’m a grown woman. Far too old for caring what the help gossip about.”

“And yet,” he said gently, “I am the help.”

A breeze rustled the tree limbs, and Jeb looked up, glad for something to focus on besides Anna Finch.

“Mr. Sanders,” she finally said, “I regret causing you to kiss me.”

Jeb returned his attention to Anna. “Do you?”

Moving away to retrieve her bonnet, she gave him a quick grin. “No,” she said as she started on the path toward her home. “Not in the least.”

“Nor do I,” he called. “Though there is some debate as to who caused what.”

“Must we always disagree?” floated to him through the trees.

“Yes,” he shouted, though he doubted she heard. “If we ever find something to agree on, I’ll be sunk.”

Mr. Sanders saw to it that the weekly mailbag from Garrison was delivered without incident. Though Anna had enjoyed riding Maisie to the picturesque town, she couldn’t afford the risk of being seen each week. Not with her column hugely popular and Mr. Mitchell looking for any opportunity to mention her name in the paper.

Then there was the problem of having a hired gun in tow no matter where she went. It was much simpler to do things his way, at least when it came to receiving mail.

For one full week she managed to avoid any social event where she might be required to have an escort. As much as she enjoyed the company of Mr. Sanders when he was kissing her, she could find no enthusiasm for occasions where Papa might play matchmaker and send her into the arms of another man.

Crazy as it seemed, Anna had begun to understand the feelings the fictional Mae Winslow had for her Henry Darling. While she wouldn’t call her situation anything near love, she’d certainly begun to anticipate the next time she might be caught alone with Jeb Sanders.

It was at once scandalous and innocent. They’d only shared a few clandestine kisses, and as the week drew to a close and another began, Anna wondered if she might have an opportunity for more.

Writing the Holliday piece filled most of her days, and the dread of seeing Edwin Beck filled her nights and kept her home. She debated having a discussion with Daniel but decided against it. Daniel had enough reason to dislike his brother without adding yet another.

She turned in her article and waited for a letter that contained train tickets.

On Monday night, she sat at her desk and pieced together a chart of dates and times she could take to Mr. Holliday when he summoned her. And he would, of this she had no doubt.

Tuesday morning she awoke to a knock at her door. “There’s a delivery for you, miss,” the maid called.

Anna sat up in bed. “Bring it in, please.”

“Yes’m,” the maid said. The door opened and she entered, dragging an oversized mailbag behind her. “Where shall I put this?”

Gesturing to her bedside, Anna felt her hopes soar. Surely this was the week that Doc would invite her back.

And it was.

When she found the note, Anna nearly squealed for joy. The seal had not been broken, giving Anna hope that the Pinkerton had not discovered the letter. This time, the ticket inside sent her to Carleton, a much smaller town. She placed the ticket and the letter under her mattress, then went to work sorting the other mail.

By midday Anna had finished. Only her hunger drove her from her room to seek something to eat in the kitchen. There she found
Jeb Sanders reading the latest edition of the
Denver Times
. “Quite the article by this Bird fellow,” he said as he lowered the paper. “Wonder how he gets these stories.”

Anna ignored him and found an apple and a slice of bread, which she slathered with a bit of fresh butter and sprinkled with sugar. She turned to leave, but the Pinkerton rose to place himself between her and the kitchen door.

“So,” he said as he took the fruit from her hand. “Any news from your friend?”

He pulled a rather lethal-looking knife from his pocket and began to peel the apple. Anna watched the red spiral stretch toward the floor.

“Mr. Sanders, I have many friends, and some correspond more often than others. For example, Gennie has written to inform me of a lovely garden party she and Charlotte attended in Newport. Glover Cottage was the place, and the Howes were hosts. Care to hear the details?”

He lifted a dark brow before shaking his head. The apple skin fell onto the tabletop.

In response, Anna took a bite of bread, then had to remind herself to chew.

“Your apple, Eve.” He handed the peeled fruit back to her, allowing his fingers to graze her palm.

“Thank you.” Anna curled her fingers around the apple. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve correspondence to handle.”

“I’m sure you do,” he said.

“I do.” Anna skittered past only to have the Pinkerton once again halt her progress. She looked down at the hand grasping her wrist.

Her hired gun reached up with his free hand to swipe at the corner of her mouth. “Sugar and spice and all that’s nice,” he whispered. “That’s what Anna Finch is made of.”

Anna’s traitorous heart did a flip in her chest. What was it about this man that turned her thoughts to kissing?

Without further comment, he went back to the table and resumed reading the
Times
.

After hurrying back up to her room, she set the lock and took a bite out of the apple, though her fingers shook. “Concentrate on the task at hand,” she whispered before setting the sugared bread on her desk.

Tomorrow’s trip to Carleton would require more than a little planning. She took another bite of the apple. “I have all day to figure it out,” she said as she went back to her work. “And Jeb Sanders won’t catch me this time.”

The next morning Anna climbed down the back stairs a full two hours before her train’s departure time. The night was black as pitch and the chickens were still asleep as she stuck to the shadows and made her way down the driveway to the street. From there, Anna walked the rest of the way into town.

With no sign of the Pinkerton, Anna boarded the train and took a seat near the back of the first car. At the stop before her destination, she slipped out to change into the clothing stashed in her bag. Once the train finished taking on water, a new—or rather different—passenger sat in Anna’s seat. If the conductor recognized the change from woman to boy, he did not comment.

The directions were simple, the hotel sparse. In the lobby she
found only two settees and a chair occupied by a man who appeared to be losing his battle with good health.

“So the famous A. Bird is not done with me after all.” He gave her an appraising look. “So this is what a Wellesley education purchases? A newspaper career playing truth or dare?”

“How do you know of my education, Mr. Holliday?”

He shook his head. “I am not without my sources.”

So it would be like this?
Fine
, she decided. She returned his stare.

“Train was late,” he said abruptly. “Usually arrives well before now.”

Ignoring his statement, Anna pulled her notebook from her case. It was stuffed with notes and clippings, research done in the hopes of reaching this day and speaking to this man again. “I wonder if there might be a place where we could talk in private.”

He led her upstairs to a suite that appeared to take up a good portion of the second level. “Do make yourself at home.”

She took her place on the settee nearest him and placed her satchel on the floor beside her. “Might I speak first?”

“Please,” he said as he leaned back against the chair.

She handed him the chart she’d created and laid out the papers so that he could see for himself what she’d figured out. When she came to the end of her story, Anna sat back and waited for his reaction.

He shrugged. “I always thought the photo that keeps ending up in the papers was just some stupid mistake that couldn’t be corrected.”

“No,” Anna said. “I think that is the actual photograph of the man pretending he is you.” She pointed to the pages scattered across the table. “And as you can see, he’s been at it for quite some time. At least ten years.”

“Ten years.” He let out a low whistle. “I am confounded. I don’t like being me most days, so it baffles me that anyone else would want the job.”

She shared a smile with him. “All I know is the dates do not match. And there are places where you are reported to be in one state but documented in another.”

He rose. “I would ask for your documentation, but I assume it’s not for me to keep.”

“No,” Anna said, “but I did take the liberty of making this for you.” She handed him a detailed explanation of what she’d just gone over. “It has all the basic information.”

Rather than look at it, Doc folded it into thirds and tucked it into his vest pocket. “Much appreciated,” he said. “Now get on along with you, or you’ll miss your train back to Denver.” He patted his vest as if recalling something he’d almost forgotten. “Might I trouble you to post these for me when you get back to the city?”

She didn’t have to look to know they were addressed to a convent in Georgia. “Of course.” Anna tried not to allow her disappointment to show as she nodded and gathered up her valise.

When she got to the door, he called her name.

“Yes?” She turned to face him.

“Thank you,” he said.

“You’re welcome.” Then she stopped. “You didn’t call me here to send me away. Are you ready to tell me your story?”

The aging outlaw paused. “Yes,” he finally said, “though I’d decided to let you go on back to Denver if you didn’t put up a fight for the privilege.”

She set her satchel aside and watched as the gunfighter seemed to contemplate his words.

“I’m going to give you the story you’ve never expected.” His smile dawned. “Though you’re quite good at what you do, so perhaps I won’t surprise you as much as I think.”

Anna fumbled through her things for pencil and paper.

“Not so fast,” he said. “There are a few stipulations.”

“Such as?”

“What I’m about to tell you is not for your readers in Denver.” He held up his hand to stop her protest. “You got your story last week, and that will have to suffice. I fancy a broader audience for this. Perhaps a national appeal.”

“Perhaps,” she echoed.

He leaned forward. “I want you to write a book. A book that actually tells the real story of Doc Holliday. Are you up for it, A. Bird?”

Anna’s grin was quick and genuine. “I am.”

Doc shrugged. “Of course you are, given your pedigree. But this will be no dime novel.” His smile was quick. “I told you I have connections, Miss Finch.”